The Apprentice
by Weegie
Summary: Can Violet break the darkness of her life to save herself and her siblings from a bleak destiny? Heavy on the VioletOlaf. NOTE: Chapter 5 is up after a long hiatus.
1. Chapter 1

Even in her dreams, Violet could not be free from Count Olaf.

In her past, Violet had dreamed the normal dreams of a girl with a head filled with gears and gadgets and other wonderful inventions, but that was the past and this was now, and now her nights were spent enveloped in darkness and it held her by the ankles and weighed her down as she ran.

In the daylight, Violet tried not to think about the things that weighed her down. She stood hunched over a rather grimy-looking table holding in her hands some tools she had managed to scrounge up from around the dingy house, if one could call this a "home". In the silence of the mid-afternoon, Violet had found the time to dismantle a small radio. Like the tools, the radio was also a long-forgotten relic that Violet had found thrown underneath a back porch. How it had gotten all the way under there she did not care to speculate on. When there was a job to do, Violet was excellent at channeling her energy into completing it, and she hoped to fix the unit.

Late morning drifted into early afternoon so quickly that Violet took no notice of the fading sunlight or the fact that she had been given a long list of chores to complete. It was the same list she was given every day, filled with the same mindless tasks, most important being the creation of dinner. Yet on this day the broken radio had attracted her devout attention in a way her husband never could.

Violet's concentration on her radio was finally broken by a sudden commotion downstairs, the sign that her husband was home.

Husband.

Violet shuddered at that word and put down her tools.

As familiar and vulgar sounds flooded into the house, Violet was consumed with panic. She wanted to run and hide–as she sometimes did–but Olaf always managed to find her. Violet sadly reminded herself that if he would already be angry with her over dinner, he would be even more infuriated over her disappearance. Violet resigned herself to a confrontation and moved downstairs.

She found Olaf's usual group of hang-abouts and leeches loafing about in a sitting room attached to the rear of the house. Peeking out from behind a sliding door, Violet rung her hands together nervously and watched them all. Out from the battle of shouting voices, Olaf's finally commanded the room's attention. At that, Violet became filled with apprehension, like a brick had been dropped into the pit of her stomach. She had to fight the instinct to turn and run.

Olaf stood near the doorway delivering some kind of fanatical impression of someone they all knew and hated. He continued on with intense focus as Violet slowly stepped out into doorway and waited to be acknowledged. Even as the troupe members averted their gaze one by one from Olaf to Violet, Olaf continued on, oblivious to everyone in the room except for the presence of his own ego. When he finished his performance, Olaf stood with hands stretched out magnificently, waiting to embrace the adoring applause that greeted every act he made before his circle of freaks. Met with silence, Olaf quickly began to search the faces of his troupe members, his face filled with simmering rage. He followed their blank and confused stares to the doorway behind him and found his little wife the only one in the room actually looking at him. Violet shuddered at his glare and at that word.

Wife.

In this short space of time, Violet began to regret her timing. She had not meant to steal away the attention of the room, but she knew he would not understand. Olaf placed his hands on his hips and looked at her impatiently

"What?" he asked, his tone poorly masking his anger.

The troupe now split their attention between Olaf and Violet, eager to see what would happen next between these two so-awfully mismatched people. Violet ignored them and took in a deep breath.

"I forgot to prepare dinner," she said bluntly. "I'm very sorry," she added, though she really wasn't. Violet, as a rule, never liked to lie to anyone, but everyone has exceptions to their own rules.

At Violet's revelation, the troupe became unsettled and the room filled with whispering. Olaf's own reaction was, at first, predictable. He glared at his young wife with contempt as Violet began to wish she had just run and hid. Yet as fast as Olaf could clean off a plate of roast beef, his demeanour calmed.

"We're eating out tonight," he said. "Didn't you read my note?"

Violet could not recall any sort of note, only the daily chore list, which she had admittedly only skimmed.

"Nevermind," Olaf said, dismissing her. "Go finish your other chores and go to bed."

Confused but grateful, Violet made her escape back upstairs to her broken radio, unquestioning of her seemingly perfect luck.

It was later than her normal ten o'clock when Violet finally began to prepare for bed. She was not particularly concerned about the time, nor that she had abandoned her chores.

Tired as she was, Violet stopped before the bed she shared with her husband and a shudder fled through her. Suddenly, the memory of her first night in this room came to her mind and she felt a weight of despair. That first night, she had gone to bed alone as well, with Olaf arriving only during the time the next morning that Violet could have been just waking up, drenched in the smell of scotch. She had slept little that night between her tears and her anxiety, and could remember with achingly painful accuracy when he had fallen into bed next to her and wrapped his arm about her body, burying his face in her hair and calling her his Pretty Little Meal Ticket. They had remained like this until Olaf fell into snoring and Violet left.

For a moment the memory had held Violet prisoner and wondering if tonight would be the same. The weight of sleep pushed her to the bed regardless and the last thought she would remember was the hope that Olaf might fall down the stairs and die this night before he could reach the bed.

It was still dark out when Violet awakened to the sounds of someone tripping through the bedroom. She rose slowly to see whom it was, even though it had always been Count Olaf and not the thief or murderer she morbidly hoped it would be. This time, like every time, it was indeed Olaf, returned from wherever it was he had been.

She sat in bed watching him move about in the dark, occasionally bumping into something and cursing quietly under his breath while stubbornly refusing to turn on a light. When he began to undress, Violet's face went warm and she lay back down again, turning away from him.

Violet assumed he was finished when she felt the weight of him in bed and his hand on her shoulder. He began shaking her and commanding her in a whispered, demanding voice to wake up. She clasped her eyes shut tightly and refused to turn to him, well aware it would infuriate him, and it did.

Grasping her tightly by her shoulder, Olaf turned Violet over, and she was forced to face him. Between his body and the large pillow that cradled her head, Violet was nearly smothered. She could feel the press of his chest and his arms and other parts she could only guess at and chose not to linger in thought about. The stench of his breath lingered over her and was so powerful she turned her face away from his and closed her eyes.

"Look at me," he said in a low, demanding growl. He forced her gaze to him with a hand locked over her chin and held it there for a long moment, staring at Violet with the same intensity he had when she had informed him that she had prepared nothing for the meal that evening.

"I let you off easily for dinner today, but you were only lucky I was in a good mood," Olaf said. "I didn't feel like punishing you in front of my troupe, but you will be punished."

He let Violet go and sat up, but he still hung over her, watching her. "As I was once your father I feel its my duty to raise you into a proper young woman. Therefore, your disobedience must not go unpunished. You'll spend the rest of the night on the floor."

Unceremoniously, Olaf tore off the sheets and shoved Violet off the bed. She moved quickly to avoid falling, stumbling forwards onto the cold hardwood floor in her sleeping gown.

"May I have some sheets?" Violet asked.

Olaf shook his head and continued to speak in a most authoritative voice. "You must learn your lessons. Be grateful I value your pretty face and didn't give you some other kind of punishment."

She had to protest. "At least give me something to protect me against the cold. If I get sick I can't do my chores," she said, trying to argue her side in relation to Olaf's own needs, but he simply narrowed his eyes.

"Perhaps we can expand your punishment," Olaf said, ignoring her reasoning. "I recently had a letter for you from your brother and that monkey you call a sister. Should I send a message back from you?"

He left the question hanging like a noose over Violet's head. She bit her lip and shook her head and, defeated, settled into her floor bed for the night.


	2. Chapter 2

_An Author's Note: I must give an honourable nod of thanks to NeoVenus22's story, "Snake in the Grass"_, _for introducing me to the potential for Jealous!Esme Squalor. I have thus interpreted it here in my own style. I hope I do not offend. Thanks._

_ Weegie_

Violet knew it was morning, just as she had known when Olaf woke up and the birds began to chatter. It was impossible to get proper rest on the hardwood floor, though Violet, to her credit, had given it an honest try.

Even before she sat up, Violet could feel her throat was dry and sore and that her shoulders ached thanks to the long night on the damp, wood floor, and she wished then that she could crawl up into the bed and fall asleep there for the remainder of the day. She felt in such a poor state that she would gladly have shared the bed with Olaf if she had to, but today, like every day, there were chores to do and egos to sate.

This sort of thing–being the regularity with which Olaf dispensed his own brand of particular cruelty­–had become the sum total of Violet's daily regimen. At first, as with all things that change as people move through life, the things Violet was subjected to came as a great shock to a girl who was used to a kinder and gentler lifestyle. As the days stretched into weeks and months, Violet felt herself adapting to the situation at hand, for she had no other choice.

The list Violet found in the kitchen today was long and crammed with scribbled, misspelled requests for things Olaf claimed he needed but was too busy to fetch for himself. Of course, to Violet, the truth was always blindingly obvious; Olaf was incapable, between the drink and his own inherent laziness, of going to the market on a regular basis and buying the necessities of life.

The regularity of her dismal shopping chores had given Violet a sharp eye for bargains and fresh foods. She walked among the busy stalls of the fruit market and onto the lane in the city where the best butchers and fish mongers sat, looking around at the people and wondering what would happen if she just decided to run away. The fleeting feeling of freedom in her mind quickly passed as the harsh wind of reality hit back and she recalled what would happen if she disappeared. In her hands lay the lives of others important to her, and they would perish if she did not obey. Violet continued on her path.

It was at this moment that Violet noticed the man in the bowler hat standing in a closed doorway. He held his arms tightly and straight to his body, burying his hands deeply in the pockets of his jacket. When he appeared to nod to Violet, she gave a very awkward turn of her head in return, the kind of movement made when a person is not confident as to who is being addressed. She turned quickly to see if there happened to be a person behind her the man could have been nodding to, but she found the street empty. Without pause, Violet again continued home.

Arriving home, Violet found Olaf returned home early­–and alone–from wherever it was he had left for in the morning. While she unpacked the groceries, Olaf took a moment out of his haphazard schedule to poke and prod the merchandise.

"They put dolphin in that."

Violet looked up from her groceries, her face filling with confused amusement.

"Excuse me?" she said, attempting to stifle a giggle from her voice.

Turning the tin of tuna in his hand, Olaf examined Violet's haul of goods, repeating his opinion with hilarious sincerity.

"I say we could do with less of those animals in the world, anyway," he said. "They're not good for much, other than eating and doing tricks."

Violet gave him a disapproving glare and could hear the front door opening. She sighed, assured from the sounds that Olaf's troupe had finally showed up to add to her daily torment. "I'm sure _you_ think they're cute," Olaf said disgustedly, putting the tin down and moving onto the other items on the table. "Is this all you got?"

"It was all that was on your list," Violet said, opening a creaky cabinet.

Olaf frowned. "You must have read the list wrong," he said. Before Violet could protest, he added, "Nevermind. We'll go out to eat."

Violet nodded in agreement as the kitchen population swelled thanks to the invasion of Olaf's associates.

"Where are we going to eat?" asked a member of the troupe.

"This is a dinner for her and I, you idiot!" Olaf yelled at the offending individual. "I'm not married to all you fools!" Two women in white make-up who were seated together on a small couch exchanged annoyed looks at that remark, Violet noticed. She also saw a member--who appeared neither a man or a woman--make a strange reaction, but she could not be sure the person was expressing sadness or confusion: even their emotions seemed as ambivalent as their gender.

There was a moment of confusion as Violet realized Olaf had just announced it was her, and not the troupe, that would be joining him for dinner that evening. Violet followed confusion with revulsion, quickly envisioning the two of them at some dank and dirty restaurant filled with drunken men and painted women, the air thick with smoke and the smell of mould.

"Dinner? With you?" Violet asked him, only realizing after she had blurted the question out that it was bound to make him cross. Olaf looked down at her.

"Yes. How unfortunate that you should be fed at the same table as your own husband," he said, scowling at her, then turning away.

Olaf barked at someone to bring the car around and ordered Violet to change into something clean, an order that struck her as both odd and ironic since Olaf was not and, mostly likely, would not change into anything a sane person could remotely consider as clean. Violet did not question his orders, though, and obediently went to change.

As she was changing, Violet could hear people leaving the house and, upon returning downstairs, found no one around. She decided to wait and sat down, listening to the faint clacking of shoes she thought might be Olaf's. If he was looking for her he would find her, but she would make no move to help him in that. Instead, she starred at the floor until the feeling that someone was watching her overwhelmed her, and Violet felt compelled to turn around to face the door. Expecting Olaf to be standing there, she was instead met by the cool stare of a woman.

"So, you're the orphan," the woman said, addressing Violet in a manner just slightly less patronizing than a person might speak to a dog.

Violet could only stare, wondering where this tall and strangely dressed woman had come from.

"Olaf said you orphans weren't very bright," she said. She unfolded her arms and came towards Violet, walking in a manner that was supposed to tell the world just how great and mighty she was.

Violet's continued silence made the woman frown. She placed her hands on her hips, displaying her long, ornate nails like a collection of sharpened daggers.

"You're not so pretty," the woman said, sniffing and turning her nose up at Violet as if she were Olaf's sweat socks.

Mulling over an answer in her head, Violet could not find anything to say in response that wasn't either rude or would make her seem like a doormat. Olaf saved her from making the decision.

"Esme," he said.

The woman turned to the door, turning ever so slightly with false elegance, and raising her hand as if the claws she called "fingernails" that sat on the tips of her fingers were frail stems of glass.

"Oh, Olaf, I was introducing myself to your—"

This woman Olaf called Esme looked down again to Violet, a thin veil of pleasantry painted over the disgust on her thickly painted face.

"Wife," Esme said. She gave Violet a faint smile as she spoke the word.

"That's all very well, but I've been looking for you. Instead I find you here engaged in idle, girlish chit-chat," Olaf said impatiently, earning himself an icy glare from Esme for his last remark. Violet, though she disliked both of these strange people, watched this exchange with curiosity, like a crowd watching a car wreck.

"I needed to speak with you, Esme. I suppose we can chat here," said Olaf, looking to Violet and adding, "Alone". Violet, being a clever girl, understood she was not welcome in the room where she had originally been told to wait, and promptly left, feeling Esme's and Olaf's eyes burning into her back.

" How could you marry her?" Esme began squealing and stomping her feet as soon as Violet disappeared from the room. "She's a filthy little orphan child!"

"She is heir to a great fortune, a fortune we need." Olaf appeared cool and unconcerned at Esme's outburst. He strolled to a musty window and leaned calmly on the sill, crossing his arms.

"There has to have been another way—"

"There was no other way," Olaf said bluntly, cutting Esme off. "What could I do? If I waited until she was of age to claim the fortune she could have been out of here, dragging those other two brats _and_ that money off with her. I could have killed them, too, but there would be so many more questions and so many more complications in getting that money. This way, I own the fortune, and no one may doubt me. It was the easiest answer."

Putting on her most injured façade, hoping to draw some sympathy, and began a different strategy.

"What about me?" she asked, her voice quivering. "Does she stay with you? In your bedroom?" She tried not to make it sound too much like an accusation. Olaf merely sighed.

"Don't try to use my own acting techniques against me. I was the one that taught you to cry on command!" said Olaf, pointing at himself. "And she stays with me. But she's more like a cat. She's just…there."

Esme wasn't pleased. "She's still there. And I'm not. What happens next? Is this how its going to be? She won't be nine years old forever." Olaf scratched his head at the remark, quite sure Violet wasn't nine years old but unsure of just how old she really was. Wasn't she at least thirteen? "One day she won't be a disgusting little child anymore, and she might learn a few things. And the fortune could be lost!"

He assured her that was not the case with a dismissive tone. "Violet is as ignorant as any other girl about these things. All she knows is that she is married to me and spends every night in my bed. That should be enough to convince her."

Esme's eyes narrowed and her mouth curved into a cat-like grin. "Women talk. Even stupid girls grow into women who talk to other women. And we learn things, like what wives and husbands are _supposed_ to do with each other when they're married."

Her plotting aside, Olaf became curious about Esme's allusions. "Just explain this to me already!"

"Its very simple," Esme began, taking delight in understanding something someone else didn't, even if that someone happened to be Count Olaf. "In this community, there are certain rules that apply to marriage that help in ending one that isn't going so well. In this case, that bratty girl could figure out your marriage hasn't been consummated and have the whole thing annulled."

Olaf stood silently, staring back at Esme. Clearly, her words had not registered with him, so she offered help.

"You do know what the word 'consummated' means, don't you?"

"I know what that word means!" Olaf snapped back, but quickly added quietly, "But I believe I could use a reminder as to its exact meaning."

"Look it up in a dictionary," Esme suggested.

Olaf scoffed. "What would I be doing with one of those things? I don't cook!"

"Very well. 'Consummated' means you would have to spend time in your bedroom with Violet doing things other than sleeping," Esme said, closely watching for Olaf's reaction.

"I see," he concluded. "Then there's no problem here. As you said, Violet is still young and naïve about many things in the world. She doesn't know what it all means, and we shouldn't strain ourselves explaining it to her."

Esme looked Olaf straight in the eye and felt no hesitation in seeking her answers, like always. "Why are you keeping her _here_?" she asked.

The suspense and build up to what Esme considered a monumental question fell flat as Olaf shrugged dismissively in answer and walked away.


	3. Chapter 3

It is easy to be impressed, if you set your standards low enough. Violet's expectations for dinner had been so low that the cheap and barely respectable steakhouse Olaf chose was enough to earn her unspoken approval.

Dinner was predictable enough: Roast beef heaped upon yet more roast beef. Olaf could not get enough while Violet poked and prodded her own excessive portion. Though she was a hungry, growing girl, there was simply too much there.

In stark contrast to the food, the meal was lacking for stimulating conversation. When Olaf bothered to address Violet at all, he normally talked _at _her, rather than _to_ her, which was rather agreeable for both parties. Olaf loved the sound of his own voice and Violet had developed the ability to completely tune out his voice when she wanted to.

As Violet continued to slosh her meat back and forth, Olaf did something entirely unpredictable, even more surprising than his choice of restaurant. Even if Violet's expectations had been as high as they might be for dinner with royalty or a head of state, she would not have expected this.

Reaching over his own plate of roast beef, Olaf wordlessly took Violet's hand in his own. Immediately, in a thoughtless and panicked haze, Violet flinched and tried to withdraw, but his grasp was strong and he held her hand in place under his.

She looked up with eyes wide and her mouth crinkled in terror and revulsion. With reluctance, she made herself look at him and found him staring back with a strange grin and that same shining in his eyes she had come to fear so well.

"Violet," he said, addressing her kindly. "I have something to show you."

Violet looked suspiciously at him, though she did not mean to. More accurately, she did mean to feel all manner of suspicion against Olaf, because Count Olaf is a man no one could trust with ease; what Violet meant to do was not to show how suspicious she was to Count Olaf.

"What is it?" he asked sincerely and with a tinge of anger. Truly, it seemed that Count Olaf could not understand why Violet could mistrust him so readily.

"Nothing," she said quickly and quietly. "What is it that you have for me?"

Gently stroking Violet's hand in his own, Olaf's face melted back into happiness. Much to Violet's pleasure, Olaf withdrew his hand from hers and stuck it into his jacket, pulling out a letter. He held it aloft next to his head looked at her with an intense stare.

"I've had a word from your siblings," he said. "Do you remember me telling you that?" To this question, Violet nodded. She could not forget it, ever.

Olaf began twirling the letter lightly in front of him, relaxing his elbows rudely on the table. "I suppose you want to read it?" he asked, teasing Violet.

"May I?" she asked back, always remembering her manners. Olaf sat back slowly.

"I suppose," he said, holding the letter up once more. He tilted it down over the table for Violet to take, but withdrew it as her fingers brushed the paper. "But I want you to promise me something."

Violet's eyes drew narrow upon him. "What do you want?"

"You will write them back," he said. While his tone was kindly, Violet knew better than to take Olaf at face value. This was no less than a direct order.

Violet reached out and took the letter, nodding once again. Of course she could not refuse the opportunity to write to Klaus and Sunny, regardless of what Olaf had planned. Ignoring the machinations of her malicious husband for a moment, Violet quickly snatched the letter down and began to open it.

With Olaf watching intently, Violet scanned the words and knew instantly they had been recorded in Klaus' young hand. She held the paper on her lap and out of view from Olaf, wanting this moment between siblings to remain as private as possible, and began to read.

_Violet,_

_I am writing this letter to let you know that Sunny and I are O.K. We are having fun in the place we are in._

It was here, at this point in the letter, that Violet noticed an odd correction. Whatever words had fallen after, "we are having fun in" had been replaced with the stiff and awkward phrasing, "the place we are in". She stopped reading and looked over at Olaf, then returned to the letter. She noticed other corrections over the letter and realized sadly that Olaf had already gone over the letter and forced his own omissions on Klaus somehow. At least, in Klaus' writing, the words were spelled correctly.

_We miss you very much, and wish you were here with us. We are being treated very well. We hope you are being treated well, too._

_There is not much we can say. I would like to say more, but–_

Here, the words had all been scratched out and replaced with nothing at all. Violet sighed, wondering what these ghost words had been. The short letter was signed, with love, by Klaus and Sunny.

"Is this all?" Violet asked, desperately hopeful a page had been lost.

"That is all you brats deserve," he said, roughly snatching the letter back. Violet followed after it, rising from her chair and holding out her hand. "That's my letter," she said in protest.

"So it was. And you read it." Olaf glanced at the letter before stuffing it back into his jacket. "And now you should be finished with it."

Her energy to protest had leaked out of her somehow, like a pin-prick in a beach ball, and Violet sat back down again. She looked aside and said nothing more on the matter.

The remainder of dinner found Olaf in great spirits. Violet assumed Olaf had some horrible plan in the works and realized, sadly, that she had only two options: Go along with him blindly, or try to discover what his plan might be. Wishing for a moment that Klaus was by her side, Violet decided to go with the latter option.

It was in the car riding home that the notion finally hit her that she had held in her hands a piece of her siblings, something she had not had in such a long time that it quickly brought tears to her eyes. She turned away to the window, afraid Olaf would see and mock her for it.

Her husband.

And at this moment something tragically funny came to Violet's mind. How alike she had become to those princesses in fairy tales, she thought. All she lacked was a stone tower and a valiant knight. She supposed, too, that at some time during her very pleasant but abrupt childhood she must have dreamed of being a princess, too, and how sad it was to actually live out the life of one so trapped in the nightmares men make.

At this, Violet sighed and looked back at Olaf, disgusted to find him digging in a nostril. She turned away again, picturing him as a great and terrifying dragon, but the image was much too majestic. Though she feared him, she did not think the image of a great and ancient dragon suited him. Instead she pictured a different sort of dragon, slouched and disheveled and picking its nose, and Violet thought to herself that this second beast was far more applicable.

The jolt of the car hitting the curb and pulling into the driveway bounced Violet out of her mind. She was swept from the car into the house and, the hour being deemed late, was promptly put to bed. Olaf joined her in the ascent to the bedroom, a rare honour, if his presence could be so deemed.

Olaf began to chatter about things Violet found to be nonsense. She tuned him out until she heard him mutter a simple good night and fell to sleep almost as quickly as his head hit the pillow.

There would be no sleep tonight for Violet, and perhaps no sleep for her for a long time. As she sat on the edge of the bed, staring out the window and away from Count Olaf, she could feel a painful weight in her throat as she tallied the weeks in her head. As the number grew, she was saddened to realize how long she had been here, and how long she had been separated from her siblings. Her mind hovered around her siblings and, though they were always in her thoughts, the situation seemed increasingly dire. She wanted to speak freely with her brother and sister, but realized also that anything she wrote would inevitably flow through Count Olaf as well, and that she would have to watch what she said. This filter eliminated all but a few simple sentiments Violet would have hoped to write, and made her wish she could write the note in some other language that only she and her siblings could understand.

Writing in code was out of the question. It was the first idea that had occurred to Violet, but she and her siblings knew of no exclusive code. She sighed, slumping her shoulders and looking back again on the mass of strewn arms and legs sleeping beside her. How closely she had entertained thoughts of throwing herself from a bridge was something Violet did not like to dwell on. Instead, to clear her mind, she thought of the radio, and what she would do tomorrow to finish it's rebuilding. These considerations eased her mind and helped sleep find her quickly afterwards and, by dawn, Violet had returned to the contraption and was in full stride of work, and this time she managed to get the thing to work.

The first lines of tinny reception gave her a start, followed by a rush of excitement. She had resurrected the dead, or as close as one comes to it with machines. Violet quickly began to tune the radio, and soon had the room filled with music. Yet her joy had blinded her to the obvious, most importantly the tall, dirty man now bounding into the room.

"What the­–," Olaf said, yelling angrily over the music. He stood at the doorway, his arms spread across the frame. Violet looked up suddenly, stepping away from the blaring radio. "What are you doing? Where's all that noise coming from?"

Violet looked confused, sure the question was redundant. "The radio," she said, pointing. Olaf followed her direction and raised one side of his large, singular eyebrow.

"Where did you get that thing from?" he asked, approaching the radio cautiously. He stopped before it, and his caution turned almost to fright, as if Olaf had seen a ghost.

"I found it," said Violet in a purposely vague manner. Olaf said nothing, gazing intently on the radio still. He seemed unable to take his eyes away from it, as if it held him in a magical enchantment. Feeling uncertain of his mood, Violet stepped in to add, "It was broken when I found it, so I thought I might be able to fix it. It was hard at first, because I didn't have some of the parts I needed, but this house is so large and filled with things that I managed with what was there." She pointed awkwardly at the radio. "And, I fixed it."

"I thought I had lost that thing," Olaf mumbled to himself. He remained hovered over the radio, leaned on the table, and for a long time did not budge. Violet noticed a cloud of sadness had come over him as he stood considering the machine. It gave Olaf a strangeness that made Violet sad to look at him, though she could not understand why. The two of them stood in the room like this for an age, listening to the empty music.

He finally drew his eyes off the radio, turning them on her. The sheer intensity of his look gave her goose pimples on her arms. Violet rubbed one arm to tame the cold chill, and turned the radio off.

"How'd you do that?" he asked.

"I told you," she said. "A few of the parts were broken, so I had to replace them. It's not too difficult, if you know what to look for. I've seen radios in worse shape." She patted this one gently, like a pet. "There was very little welding, and the case was easy to open." She stopped, knowing the minute technicalities would bore a man like Olaf. Violet looked up to find him watching her with those same shining eyes that had become so familiar and so terrifying. She braced herself.

He snaked his way around the table towards her. Violet responded, moving back and falling into an old, musty high-back chair. She hit the chair hard and snapped her neck up and there was Olaf standing imperiously over her.

"Violet," he said, folding his hands together. "I have a job for you to do…"


	4. Chapter 4

_Author's Note: I uploaded it this during server problems (see their front page for details) and I'm not sure it was properly uploaded. Therefore, I deleted this chapter and re-uploaded it. I apologize for any confusion._

Sleeping in was a popular and trendy habit for Esme. Waking up before noon was out, while staying up to all hours was in, to speak in the vernacular of Esme and her ilk. When she stayed over at Olaf's house, Violet would be unceremoniously dumped in another room for the night, and she would not see either of them until well into the afternoon. This arrangement bothered Violet in the least, though the young girl could not fathom why any woman would willingly share a night with the man. She certainly derived no enjoyment from it.

Regardless of other schedules, Violet had to wake up early to do chores. She could hardly sleep anyway. In her head swam a million thoughts, all fighting for attention: her inventions, the letter from Klaus and Sunny, the letter Olaf expected her to write back to her siblings, and the job he had lined up for her to perform. Of the last item on her list, the job, Violet knew little, only that it would utilize her "unique talent" for working with machines.

In a sleepy daze, Violet slipped out the front door, shopping list in hand, and glanced back at the house only once, enough to catch a glimpse of Esme standing at the window of Olaf's bedroom. Her arms were folded as tightly as her furrowed brow and unsmiling lips. Vainly hoping Esme hadn't seen her turn to look, Violet turned her head and stumbled forward out of the yard.

Though Olaf hated them, Violet loved shopping for fruits and vegetables, risking his wrath to spend some extra money on fresh apples, cucumbers, and whatever else happened to be in season.

Finding a stall with a few odd varieties of foods she had never seen before, Violet paused to inspect them. As she turned an eggplant over in her hand she spotted the man in the bowler hat, the one she had nodded politely to the other day. Realizing he had her eye, he tipped his hat to her once again. This time she nodded with confidence and a smile and moved on to the other stalls.

The last stop before home was for meat, and Violet found the same bowler hat man standing in the doorway of the butcher. She excused herself as she moved by him and in through the door, and he stepped aside for her.

"Will it be roast beef tonight?" he asked, causing Violet to pause. She grasped the frame of the shop door for support and turned to look at the man. It was the first time she had given him a good study instead of just passing over him, and she realized now that he was much younger than she had thought he must be. He had large, bright teeth and cheeks that dimpled like a child's when he grinned. The most striking feature of his face was his pair of large, clear eyes. Regardless, the man's knowledge of her movements left Violet concerned.

"I'm sorry?" she asked. It was the only reply she could muster in so short a time. What she really wanted to do was demand how he knew what she was buying, and if he had been following her, and if he was an associate of Olaf's.

"I should be the one saying sorry, I do realize now," bowler hat said to her. "I must have given you such a scare to ask a question like that."

They stood silently in the doorway for a moment looking at one another before bowler hat put out his hand. "My name is Stanley," he said cheerfully. Violet observed his hand carefully before taking it, and when she did, Stanley seemed very pleased.

"I'm Violet," she said reluctantly.

Though she was not a mean person by nature, Violet had been forced by circumstance to build a wall between herself and the rest of the world. She hated being unfriendly, but she feared being hurt more. Being rude to Stanley was only Violet's way of making sure that things could not get any worse in her life.

Excusing herself, Violet tried again to get into the butcher shop, but she was caught by Stanley's words.

"Violet, I would like to apologize for scaring you," Stanley said quietly. "I'm not following you, if that's what you think. I just happen to spend a lot of time in the market, so I get to know everyone's face. You just looked so friendly that I thought I could speak freely to you."

It made sense to Violet, that someone who was in the market all day watching people would just happen to know what certain people bought and when. She was a regular here, to be sure, and she was always buying a roast, more regularly than she bought anything else.

"It's okay, Stanley," Violet said. "I didn't mean to be rude." She gave him a smile, a movement she had done so infrequently in recent weeks that she might have forgotten how to smile completely. Stanley opened the door widely for Violet and wished her well.

"I hope to see you again soon. Thursday, right?" Stanley said, correctly naming Violet's next shopping day.

She quietly bid him farewell and turned for home. She found the place vacant, noticing that even Esme and Olaf had finally left his bedroom. Because she had always been a good student, Violet decided to get down to writing her letter.

In a room near the kitchen she found a small writing desk. She cleared it off and began another search for pen and paper. The pen was discovered easily enough, but a clean piece of paper took nearly half an hour to track down. After this, Violet had had nearly enough to give up writing for the day, but decided to try and give it a start.

Unsure of what to say, for fear that Olaf would edit everything out, she hesitated a long time before putting pen to paper. She fell into a nervous chewing of her pen until realizing she had bitten through to the end. Sadly, she thought of Sunny and put the pen down.

Nearly defeated, Violet sighed and sat back, turning her thoughts to other things. Looking down to her pen and paper, made Violet think again of the letter. Why should she care if Olaf censors her letter, she thought suddenly, gaining a fresh resolve. She would write what she wanted, Count Olaf be damned.

Klaus and Sunny,

I miss you both more than I can tell you in this letter. I hope you are being treated well. I worry about you both every day.

I am not hurt. I would like to write that I am happy, but I am not. I probably don't have to write why I am not happy. I am glad you are both away from Count Olaf, because he is still as horrible as ever. Every day he gives me a long and impossible list of chores to do, as always. I am a slave and I hate it.

Please be strong. I want to see you both, and I hope to see you soon. I love you.

Violet

She finished off the letter with her signature and sat back to admire her work. It had been good to write the words she had, though she wondered how Olaf would take it. Violet knew she would hear from him about this and only prayed that Klaus and Sunny wouldn't suffer instead. She folded it neatly and stuck it in the drawer.

For supper, Violet had time to prepare yet another heap of roast beef. All of the theatre troupe was in attendance, including Esme, who scowled and barely touched her own portion, declaring beef as a meal that was currently "out". Olaf devoured two helpings, his only thanks to Violet came in the form of a loud and unapologetic belch at the end of the meal.

Violet waited quietly until everyone had finished, then collected the plates for washing. When she came to Olaf's he grasped her wrist.

"Do you have that letter finished yet?" he asked. She nodded. "Good. Then go get it for me." Violet collected the remainder of the plates and did as she was told.

Returning with her letter, Violet handed it to him, wondering if he would read it here with all the room filled with his troupe, and what his reaction would be. Her hunch was right.

"My little orphan has decided to write to her disgusting siblings," he said, calling to the room while holding the letter aloft. Everyone laughed, turning to watch him unfold the article. Violet sat down slowly, her earlier boldness having long ago abandoned her.

Olaf leaned back and read the letter to himself. Everyone's eyes studied him as his moved slowly down the short letter. His face remained a curious blank, indicating neither amusement, displeasure, or even comprehension. After an eternity of silence, Olaf folded up the letter and looked about the room.

"I think we'll have a poker night," he said to hoots and cheering. Even Esme appeared pleased, pipping in that playing poker was very in at the moment. Olaf turned to Violet and ordered her out to the kitchen. "Get us some wine and snacks."

Momentarily relieved, Violet ran out of sight to get the bottles, taking her time. As people shuffled about to arrange themselves for the game and fetch cards and money, Violet returned, setting down the wine. She turned to make her retreat to the kitchen, where she expected to be exiled to for the rest of the night. Again, Olaf caught her wrist.

"Stay," he said, pulling her down. She fell clumsily across his lap and, at first, made to leave, deeply embarrassed that she had fallen down as she did. Yet Olaf caught her once more, and she fell back down. His arm wrapped around hers and his face crept in close to hers. He whispered in her ear so that the others could not hear, "Cute letter. I'll keep my eye on you tonight." Louder, he continued, saying, "Stay with me, and be my lucky charm."

Flushed deep red and perched on Olaf's knee, Violet quietly cursed her insubordination.

As the first hand was dealt, Violet crossed her arms about herself and moved her body to the very edge of Olaf's knee. But the man moved about so much that she found herself falling back onto him several times. If she looked out and away from him she only found the glares of the ugly troupe members staring back at her from over their playing cards.

"What should I do?" She thought he was talking to himself until he pulled her back with his cards, holding both in close to him for inspection.

She had never played the game. "I don't understand," she told him, looking at the cards. "I've never played before."

He looked at her and laughed. "No, of course you don't. This is a game for adults." He turned back to the table, placed a bet, and won on his hand.

On the next deal, Olaf consulted Violet once more.

"Did you watch the game? Have you figured it out?" he asked. She shook her head. Given enough time, Violet was clever enough to understand anything, but the parameters of this game still eluded her.

"Please, I don't want to play," she said. He ignored her request, ordering her to choose an option. "Should I fold, or play on?"

She sighed and rotated her gaze between the table, the cards, and her hands. Olaf shook her. "Fold," she said, and he did.

As the others played on and the hands were revealed, Olaf groaned with annoyance. "My hand beat that!" he said, pointing to the winning hand. He scowled at Violet and muttered something. He didn't ask for her help again.

Violet's misery was accelerated as Olaf devoured the wine like water. At some intervals he decided it was a good idea to offer Violet some as well. She desperately declined every offer, but with the bottle forced to her lips, Violet could not refuse. Some ran down her cheek and onto her dress and hands, making them sticky. When she had been given enough, Violet felt lightheaded. He gave her no more after that, consuming the rest to push himself over the edge of drunkeness.

The wine combined with the hour and Violet was overcome with sleep. Even as he yelled across the table and jerked about in his chair, Violet found Olaf's shoulder as welcoming as any pillow and she fell against it.

The rest of the night was a haze of still pictures in her mind. She remembered a hand around her shoulder, brushing at her hair and caressing her face. At some point someone took her and carried her to the stairs. After that, she was shaken awake and told to walk up the stairs, though she leaned heavily onto an accompanying body. She fell into bed fully clothed and slept for what felt like days. When she woke, she found her husband next to her in deep sleep.

Husband.

The thought gave her a shudder. She put her hands on her forehead and wished only to disappear.


	5. Chapter 5

Violet woke to a lingering, familiar smell. Crumpling her face, she rolled around, trying to rid herself of the sense, but the stench—for there could be no other way to describe it—was inescapable. Olaf's sweat covered the bed sheets and the pillows and it was trying to cover Violet as well. Sighing, she flung her tired body out of the bed.

Pulling on a threadbare cloak, Violet padded down the hall to the bathroom. When the memories of the previous night tried to claw back into her mind, she wished there were some way to make herself forget it all. She turned the rusty handles of the bathroom faucet on and off, thinking about how clever it would be if her mind worked in the same way.

Violet happened to glance at her hands and at once recognized how dirty and rough they looked. Sighing once more, she walked to the mirror and contemplated the worn young face that looked back at her. Lazily, she wiped the sleep from her eyes and brushed at her bangs. It was time for a bath.

The footed tub had once been covered in a thick layer of grime, but Violet had seen to it that the bathroom eventually became tolerable. Though the pipes creaked and the showerhead in the tub was broken, the water gushed as hot and strongly as it had in Violet's own home that she had shared with her family not so long ago.

The rushing water held Violet's gaze, hypnotizing her into another one of her inventive states. As she watched the water level rise, she felt her cares drowning away, if only for a few merciful and fleeting moments.

The shoulders of her dressing gown fell down about her and she reached absentmindedly for the buttons of her shift. Over the sound of the water, Violet could not hear the creak of the door.

"Why aren't you outside painting the shutters?" said a voice. Violet jumped, grasping her clothing tightly to her. There, at the door frame, stood Olaf, slouching in his bedclothes. His arms were crossed about him and he held his head held low, looking dark and serious with displeasure. Violet's brain raced for a reply, but her mouth could only make hollow, gaping gestures. "Well?"

Violet grabbed her clothes tighter about her, like a shield. A demand for Olaf to leave the room danced urgently on her tongue, but it would not leave her mouth. Instead, she went with something more demure.

"I was cold," she said.

"_I was cold,_" he said, mimicking her girlish tone. He sighed dramatically before adding, "You were more obedient when you were my daughter."

"I was never your daughter," she said, almost in a whisper.

"What was that?" he asked. Violet only shook her head.

"No," he said, approaching her. "What did you say? Come on, say it again." He closed the distance between them, coming so close as to make Violet take a step back. Her legs hit the cool rim of the tub, sending a shock through her. When she still refused to repeat her words, Olaf grabbed her chin and forced her gaze upon him. "Tell me."

"You're not my father," she said after silent deliberation. "You never were and you never will be." With that, Violet closed her eyes, knowing she would pay for this.

Olaf released her. "Turn off the water," he said to her. "The tub is almost full. I think I will take a bath. Go paint my shutters, and when you're done come see me. I'm sure that my bath will give me lots of time to think of more things for you to do." With that, he shoved her out the door.

Unwilling to antagonize Olaf further, Violet did indeed paint the shutters, as she had been ordered. She did not, however, do her chores happily. For each paint stroke, Violet laid a curse upon Olaf for the misery he caused. When she came to him for the rest of her chores she took them without complaint, even when he sent her off again with a patronizing pat on her head telling her she was _his_ "good girl". Violet waited until he was out of her way to resume her curses upon him, throwing them out by the rhythm with which she scrubbed at the sink or mopped the floor.

When all was all done, Violet stood at the door of the sitting room, covered in paint and dirt, waiting to be addressed as Olaf entertained his troupe of morons. As his eyes finally fell upon her, Olaf eyes grew wide. Violet knew she had never worked so hard in one day in all her life, but she was not aware of how messy she actually appeared. Certainly, it took a rather haggard appearance for even Olaf—the Champion of Mess—to take notice.

"Violet! Get in here! What happened to you? Why are you so messy looking?"

"I'm done my chores," she said incredulously.

"Doesn't she ever bathe?" Esme asked with disgust.

"Yes, why don't you bathe? You look horrible," Olaf said, as if the thought had never occurred to Violet.

"Fine," Violet said under her breath, glad to quit the room.

A memory came over Violet as she angrily ascended the stairs to the bathroom, one she had tried so hard to banish. As she once again turned on the water and strip off her tattered, dirty work clothes, Violet remembered her wedding day.

She could only recall bits and pieces now; some words spoken here, a picture of a scene there, even the smell of the dress that she had worn that day. It was all a bitter thing to her, for it had not at all been an event that she had enjoyed.

When she had been little, she had thought about what would happen if she got married. She had pictured herself much older, and much happier. No little girl dreams of marrying a man like Count Olaf. Violet knew she had not.

After her wedding, Violet cried to the point of sickness. When her siblings were taken away, she stopped eating altogether. "If you kill yourself, you'll kill _them_, too," Olaf had said to her then. After that, Violet knew she had to be strong and she began to eat once more.

Interrupting her stream of memories came a sudden thought: Violet remembered this time that she should lock the door before starting her bath. When this was done, she knew that she was safe, if only for a time.

oOoOo

The week passed without major upsets or unique remarks. And then it happened that Count Olaf came to Violet with a plan.

Something had clicked in his head when he had seen what she did with the radio, and he told her that he had use of her particular talents. At the time, he had not given her details, but it seemed that he had worked some out for her now.

"We're going to attend a party," Olaf told her. "There is a big one coming up at the house of an old friend of mine and I'm eager to visit them." All the time he spoke, Olaf's wolfish grin grew wider.

"Why do I have to go?" Violet asked the question innocently enough, though deep down inside she wanted to nothing more than to scream out that she would never, ever go.

"You'll see," he said.

"When?"

"Tuesday. Go do your chores now. It's getting late and I want that roast done by five." Violet nodded as he pushed her towards the door.

The following day was a market day. Outside of the house and away from Olaf and all of his dreadful associates, Violet took this precious time to loose herself in deep thought of what she might hope to invent very soon.

Her mind hovered over the idea of an alarm clock she thought she could fashion together from some parts of an old metronome, and Violet did not see Stanley perched on the step of the butcher's door.

"Violet," he said. "Hello!"

Violet, shocked back into reality, did not immediately respond. She glanced over at him with wide eyes. Stanley approached her, ready to shake her hand, but was paused by the look of her.

"Violet, are you sick?" he asked.

"Oh, no," she said, finally finding her voice. "You startled me."

"Oh, good. Er, I mean, bad. Yes, how terrible. I'm very sorry I scared you," he said, tripping over his words. For such an elegant man, Stanley did not always appear to be sure with his words.

"It's all right," Violet said. "What are you doing here today?"

"Oh," he said, shrugging. "I'm just people-watching. I love to watch people go about their business. It's quite interesting, you know."

"Yes, it does," Violet lied. She was too polite to tell him that the whole thing sounded incredibly boring to her.

"I was hoping I'd run into you today," Stanley said. "I wanted to let you know that the bookseller is having a sale this week. I saw that he had a good stock of mechanical books on his shelves yesterday."

Violet's eyes lit up. "That sounds wonderful! But how did you know I liked machines?"

Stanley removed his hat and scratched his head shyly. "Oh, well, you know…I was watching you one day. You had stopped in front of the booksellers and you must've stared at a book about car engines for at least fifteen minutes before going on your way. It was quite an odd thing to do, so I remembered it. You see, this is what I do when I people-watch--I make notes about the things people do. Everyone has their own way of going about their day. No two people are the same."

"Yes, I see that now. My brother used to—" Violet stopped herself before she could say more. The sudden reminder of Klaus made her too sad to speak.

"Your brother?" Stanley asked.

Violet could only nod. She could feel the blood rise in her face and she turned away. She did not want to cry in front of all these people.

"I'm sorry," Stanley said. "I didn't mean to upset you."

Violet turned back slowly, wiping at the corner of her eye. "I'm all right," she told him. "Thank you for letting me know about the book sale, but I'm afraid I only have money for food. I'm not allowed to buy books."

"Oh, that's very strange. Who would not allow you to buy books?"

Violet bit her lip, feeling a pain in her chest at the mere thought of Olaf and his opinions on books. "My…husband won't allow it."

"Your husband?" Stanley asked. Violet nodded, unsure of why she said it all. She could not fathom why she would speak of Olaf to others as her husband, or why she would admit to the trouble he caused her. Certainly, Stanley was still a stranger to her. She still wondered if he was here to spy on her for Olaf and whether or not he could be trusted.

"You look so young to be married," Stanley said with what appeared to be genuine shock. "Is it true?"

Violet nodded again. "I don't like to speak about it," she told him, hoping the subject would be dropped.

"Oh, yes, of course," Stanley said, grasping the point.

A silence hung between them for a moment until Violet spoke.

"I have to get along," she told Stanley. "I have a lot to do today."

The sadness in her voice must have struck a cord of pity with Stanley, for her offered his assistance no less than five times before Violet's wall of refusal stopped him for good. Instead, he was forced to be placated with offering her a good deal of luck.

"If you ever need to talk, I'm usually here in the market," he told her. Violet gave him the small pittance of a smile and a wave.


End file.
